


A Fevered Panic

by embroiderama



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-17 13:50:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embroiderama/pseuds/embroiderama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal doesn't get sick, except for when he does. This time, the flu bug going around the office takes him by surprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fevered Panic

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [](http://azertynin.livejournal.com/profile)[**azertynin**](http://azertynin.livejournal.com/)'s [prompt](http://ariadnes-string.livejournal.com/164469.html?thread=3237493#t3237493) in the [Running Hot III](http://ariadnes-string.livejournal.com/164469.html) fic meme.

If anybody asked, which nobody ever did, Neal would be happy to boast that he has an excellent immune system. Even when he was regularly flying all over the world, even when he was stuck in the petri dish of the prison system, even living in a population-dense city like New York, he almost never got sick. When other people were miserable and pink-nosed from the latest bug, Neal would almost always be fine, even without resorting to Mozzie's paranoid methods of germ-avoidance. As far as Neal could tell, his immune system would spot an intruder and slam it down, much like Diana would an armed suspect. Even if he did get sick, the whole thing would be over quickly, and that worked just fine for him. Most of the time.

The downside was that, on those rare occasions when the seasonal bug was big enough and bad enough to avoid instant death at the hands of Neal's immune system, the experience of being the battleground where his body enthusiastically fought off the illness wasn't good. Every time, he thought it would be no big deal. Every time, he was wrong.

~~~

Flu season came around as it always did, and this time Clinton Jones was patient zero. He got stuck corralling small children at his nephew's birthday party, and three days later Peter sent him home when he fell asleep at his desk with his head on the keyboard. Peter was next, and from that point on the office was never more than halfway staffed. By the time one person was back in the office, tired but basically recovered, another person would be struggling to get through the day with a headache, a sore throat, and a growing fever before they finally gave in and went home.

"You _still_ haven't had this thing?" Peter asked on the day he came back in to work, grumpy and worn-looking.

"Guess I'm just lucky." Neal grinned and shrugged, and Peter actually growled at him like an aged dog. It was good to have him back.

Peter went up to his office to catch up on his backlog of work, and Neal found himself nearly alone in the bullpen. The few agents who were healthy enough to work were out taking care of cases, and the few administrative staff members who were in the office were struggling to keep up with several people's work. Neal was sipping the coffee that he hoped would make him feel more awake when an e-mail came through from Peter.

_Whatever you're working on, I need you to look at this first. It's a priority per Hughes so look at the file and see if you can make any sense out of the data in the attached spreadsheet. I'll check in with you when I'm caught up but I have a meeting so it might be a while. Thanks._

The e-mail contained a link to the case file as well as an Excel attachment, and Neal settled in to read up on the case, a complex financial con with elements of fraud and blackmail. Reading between the lines, Neal got the impression that the victim of the con was connected to the FBI so Peter's note that it was a priority from Hughes was probably putting it lightly. If they didn't come through on this one, there would be some seriously negative attention from higher up, and Neal could already smell the stale odor of his old cell. In his months working with Peter, it had been made abundantly clear to Neal that he was at constant risk of having his deal revoked, and this could be the case to send him back.

If the White Collar division needed a scapegoat, he'd be driven into the hills for sure. If they needed a sacrificial lamb, he'd be the one at the edge of the knife. The animal metaphors were unsettling, so Neal finished off his coffee and tried to put the future out of his mind so he could focus on the case at hand.

Time slipped by as Neal read the information over and over, waiting for it to form a pattern in his mind, but the only results he was getting were a headache and an uneasy feeling that seemed to move through his body in slow waves. It was panic, he thought, a slow-rising panic because whoever had pulled this con was good. Incredibly good. The data didn't make any sense, no matter that Neal had stared at it until his eyes ached, and Neal didn't have any more understanding of the case than he had when he started looking at it hours ago.

He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and never look at the file again, but he couldn't stop hoping that the pieces would suddenly fall into place because if they didn't he was in trouble. If they didn't, he'd be back in prison, and he'd never be able to find Kate, never be able to help her. They'd be careful enough that he couldn't escape again, and they'd make sure he suffered for wasting everybody's time. He could end up spending the next almost-four years in solitary, never seeing anybody other than impersonal guards, and if he ever came out he wouldn't be somebody Kate wanted. He wouldn't be anything.

Neal couldn't even see the file anymore; all he could see was the horror of his whole life destroyed because he was too stupid to figure out this one case.

"Neal." Peter's voice startled Neal out of his thoughts. "Please tell me you've got something on this case."

Neal swallowed, his throat dry and sore. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Peter put his hands on his hips, and Neal could see the handcuffs that would be on his wrists soon. "What for?"

Neal's headache throbbed fiercely behind his eyes, and he put his head in his hands to keep from having to see Peter's disappointment and anger. "I can't figure it out. I tried but I can't, I don't know--" The darkness behind his hands made Neal think of being locked away in a little box forever. "Can you just make sure they don't put me in solitary? Or not--not for a long time. I know this is bad, I know, but I can't--"

"What the--Neal?" There was a weight on the back of Neal's neck and then a touch to his forehead, pushing around the edges of his fingers. "Damn it, why didn't you tell me you were sick?" Hands were pushing Neal back to sit up straight rather than leaning on his desk, and Neal let himself go with the movement, preparing himself for the cool touch of metal on his wrists, but the hands just shook him gently. "Neal? Open your eyes."

Neal didn't want to, but the pulsing darkness was making him feel sick so he gave in and opened his eyes to see Peter crouched in front of him, frowning. "I'm sorry," Neal said again.

"Why didn't you tell me you were sick?" Peter's words were strangely slow and deliberate.

"I don't get sick." Neal didn't think it was the right time to talk about his awesome immune system.

"The fever you're running would seem to say otherwise."

"Fever?"

"Yeah, Neal. It feels like one hell of a fever. Why did you come in if you felt this bad?"

"I didn't--oh." For the first time in what felt like a long time, something was starting to make sense because this is what his body did. Passive resistance hadn't been enough to beat down this flu bug, so his immune system was incinerating it instead. Fire, cleansing fire, fever.

"Yeah, oh. Let's go." Peter stood and held his hand out to take Neal's arm.

Neal scooted back. "Can I--the fever won't last long--can I have another chance to figure this out? I don't want to go back to prison, Peter, please."

Peter bent in close, close enough for Neal to smell the cherry cough drop on his breath. "You're not going to prison, Neal. You're going to bed. Now, come on."

Stunned, Neal let Peter pull him up. He put his arms in the sleeves of his coat when Peter held it out, and he leaned against the wall of the elevator with his eyes closed. Things were a little fuzzy after that, but Neal had an impression of being made to swallow pills. He remembered the comfort of something cool on his forehead, a soft hand on his face, and he thought it might have been Kate. Maybe, maybe Kate.

When things made sense again, it was dark outside and Neal was alone in his apartment. He was wrapped up in sweaty sheets, his boxers and undershirt clinging to his body. A bottle of water sat on his bedside table, and as Neal drank it he remembered being at work, struggling with the case. He really hoped that things hadn't been as bad as he thought, and the only way to find out was to ask. The time on Neal's phone was just after 9pm so he called Peter's cell.

"Neal?" Peter answered quickly.

"Uh, hi."

"How are you feeling? Are you okay?"

"I'm tired but okay. I'm sorry for crashing on you like that. The case--"

"The case is fine, don't worry about it. Just stay home until you're feeling better."

"I'm better now. I'll be in tomorrow. I know this case is important."

"It's not _that_ important, and I don't know what you're thinking but nobody's going to send you back to prison for not being able to work miracles when you're sick."

"But--"

"Just relax. Diana and I have a short list of suspects, and I think we'll have it all but tied up tomorrow. June should be checking on you so if you feel worse tell her or call me. Okay?"

"Okay. See you tomorrow."

Peter sighed in frustration, and Neal smiled as he hung up. Everything was going to be fine.


End file.
